


To Stand Against God - Snippets

by masheli (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/masheli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of the original fic'verse I think I'll be working on until they bury me. Warnings for a very warped internal mythos and, well. Title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Atira was wearing pants today. This was a bad thing for all involved, and those that knew the little reasons behind her usual clothing scheme looked decidedly uncomfortable as she got up from her seat at the head of the table, heels making quiet clicking noises as she circled the assorted and assembled demons. There was ice in her movements, a cold predatory intent that made Nahollo want to curl up as small as possible and hide under the table. She flowed around the table a few times, finally settling on the individual at the furthest end of the table from Nahollo.

The dark-haired man had skin darker than Nahollo’s, but was fairly obviously Native American to Nahollo’s eyes. He had dark hair, and overall he nagged at a back corner of Nahollo’s mind. He was familiar- and that familiarity had instinctively made him sit at the far end of the table, next to his former classmate. “Saevita.” The masked and hooded demon turned his head in response to his name, tracking his leader with eyes alone.

“Lady Caligo?” That voice was even more familiar, and Nahollo frantically tried to make the odd, jagged edges of what he knew fit together. He was a familiar Native American man, a few years older than him but not quite in his forties- and a demon. He was Saevita, which was- the demon of cruelty. Nahollo fussed with the end of his braid as the pieces of what he knew collided in uncomfortable ways. “Do you need something?”

That tone of honeyed, false respect and innocence was something that sat wrong with the sole angel in the gathering- it rattled at things he could only half-remember, and the only people who would remind him of that would be his relatives. This demon was related to him- he wasn’t quite sure how he’d come to that conclusion, but it had fit. Nahollo stood up, pushing his chair backwards and settling his cloak around him, trying to ignore the piercing feeling of eyes turning to focus on him as he made a further spectacle of himself. “Chase Graves,” Nahollo rasped, resting a hand on the table. It was solid, much better than he felt at the moment- and, oddly, the fact that he felt sicker seemed to confirm what he felt.

“You know Saevita?” Atira’s smile would have terrified the sun out of the sky, and it took all of Nahollo’s will to not shrink back into his chair. Everyone here, with the notable exception of himself and two girls, was an adult. He was just a teenager- he had barely even Awakened. In their eyes, he was a toddler, someone just learning to fumble his way around. “How odd… I had hoped to hear some confirmation of this, though, seeing as he’s left a… mark on you.”

“He what?” Nahollo fumbled for breath, taking one just slightly too deep and feeling his body react. His lungs and throat burned as he coughed, trying to keep his balance on the table and failing, finding the older Sexton twin- Tractere- holding him up. He struggled to resume control of his breathing, but it simply was not going to happen- not in time to cover that blunder, and not in time to hide the weakness he presented to the assembled demons at the table. He was supposed to be a leader, inspiring fear and awe in the opposing forces the way Caligo- Atira- did. Instead, he had been forced to show them all how weak he was- how easily any of them could kill him.

“That is Saevita’s mark. Tell me, Thanatos- how long have you been ill like that? A year or two shy of the entire time you’ve known him?” All he had to do was nod. It wasn’t hard, but it was shameful- and a horrifying realization. “And you know just how broad some powers reach.”

It made sick sense. Saevita the sadist, Chase, who had impossible aim for all the little places on a person or animal that would make it suffer- and the amount of sheer hell his illness had put him through. Nahollo sat down carefully, offering Twyla a worn smile as she offered him a handkerchief. The blood oozing down his hand was uncomfortable, but familiar- and, perhaps, all Saevita’s fault. “Yes, Caligo.” The wheezed response was all he could think of- and it would have to be enough to impress upon the rest of those scavenger eyes he felt watching that he was not prey- that he was Caligo’s equal. He alone was allowed to address her without the title she insisted upon. Of all the people here, only he was allowed to call her Caligo without fear of her anger. He was already almost down- but, somehow, he had to convince them he wasn’t prey.

“Lovely. Then you won’t mind if I do… this.” ‘This’ was not something Nahollo wished to ever see again in his lifetime. He hadn’t been aware that Caligo’s ‘weapons’, the direct physical agent of her power, were the sharp little nails on each finger. He hadn’t wanted to know that. He hadn’t wanted to see her haul Saevita- Chase- his cousin- up by his shoulders with little regard for his weight, each of those ten points digging into his flesh and causing him to cry out. Nahollo’s scar hurt sharply, sending bolts of pain up his left arm, making his fingers twitch uncontrollably.

‘This’ was throwing Chase across the room so hard that Nahollo could hear several loud snaps, meeting him with inhuman, unholy speed, ramming an arm that should not have been able to cause that much damage into his back, and hissing something Nahollo couldn’t quite make out but felt in a way that burned at him, making him nauseous. It was not death. Death did not generally entail the kind of keening, traumatized screeching that was coming out of Chase. It did sometimes involve convulsing and throwing up- and occasionally blood. It did not entail the would-be deceased’s pale-haired cousin feeling physically better in an abrupt way.

He’d wanted to close his eyes against the sight, wanted to stop watching as she casually turned Chase over and slid a fingernail up his abdomen, reaching in and yanking and raising a bloody, stinking mess. He couldn’t. Closing his eyes would be a weak reaction to the eyes of the demons. “Caligo! Enough!” His voice was still weak, he sounded ill, but it got her to stop and look at him.

“Yes?” She sounded entirely like she was enjoying herself, and that just made Nahollo sicker. He scrambled to think of a way to make this end- and all he could think of was himself.

“He wronged me. Don’t I get to do something?” It sounded weak- but at least this way he didn’t have to watch Chase suffer, didn’t have to feel his left hand set off alarms for something he was already witnessing. She gazed at him for a moment, as if his words didn’t quite make it to the less animal part of her brain- and he could see it when they did.

“Yes, Thanatos, you do.” Nahollo didn’t take a deep breath- those were long out of habit with him, and that was ignoring the smell. Instead, he stood once again, closing his eyes and tuning out the room, reaching, grasping for the life that he could feel about to end regardless. At least ending it this way would be less painful.

“Rest in peace, you sadistic asshole,” Nahollo muttered, jerking his left hand back and to his body, feeling the snap of Chase’s lifespan.


	2. Party at Lake Tahoe

           Though Atira loathed to admit it, she did own some property up around Lake Tahoe. She rarely used it, and had bought it in an effort to keep an eye on Nahollo- _especially_ after the tableau with Saevita. The redheaded she-demon smiled a little, leaning back in her chair as she watched the sun set. There were people on her property, and not ones she had to kill or maim for being trespassing little bastards. These were people, _teenagers,_ that she welcomed onto her property, into her home.

 

            Her back yard, the part of the property facing the water and the sunset, was filled with laughter. There was even a small, controlled fire burning in a cleared spot. She’d never thought she would live to see people enjoying themselves on her property. Either she would kill Nahollo, weak as he was, or he’d kill her and prove himself stronger than her. That was the way things _had_ been.

 

            Instead, she had him sitting out in the sun in her yard, with various younger demons and angels occasionally walking up to him, sharing jokes and laughter and utterly human warmth. It was peaceful and friendly, and it made Atira smile to watch.

 

            Ostensibly, it had been a party for Nahollo’s birthday- July the first, in the heart of summer’s heat and activity in these mountains. In reality, Atira and Twyla had set this up- an apology for so many things that she had done wrong, had allowed either through arrogant oversight or through ignoring Cassandra completely. The latter was just more of the same arrogance.

 

            Twyla, at least, knew it for what it really was. It was an apology to the white-haired angel of death, trying to give him some semblance of a normal social life, trying to give him some of the childhood she had inadvertently stolen from him. She knew better than anyone that it was a pale, weak sort of apology, but it was the only sort she could give. He seemed happier now that he wasn’t dying, or at risk of dying, even if he did seem to have problems realizing that he could get up and dance with his fellows.

 

            It warmed her heart, just a little, to watch Nahollo enjoying himself, even if it was in a quiet way. He obviously was- his smiles were no longer colored with the strain and fear of making friends.  He wasn’t exactly someone she could directly socialize with- she was fairly sure she would always have a hard time understanding his motivations, and he would have an equally hard time understanding hers- but she could offer him this. She could offer him what protection she had available, make his life easier, and guide him to the best of her ability.

 

            Atira never wanted to see Nahollo as upset as he had been only a month before, when he had spilled _everything_ at her. _I don’t think I wanted to hurt anyone any more than he does, when I was his age._ It was difficult to remember.

 

            Lost in thought as she was, she nearly missed it when Nahollo walked up to her and stopped, waiting for her attention in patient silence. As soon as she looked up and straightened, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, forehead pressed against her left. “Thank you, Cal— _Atira._ ”


	3. NaNo Opener

It was one more day, and he was still breathing. It was shaky, but he was still breathing, still counting off the times his chest rose and fell, the times that he heard that tattletale rasp that told the whole world he was ill. He was still alive, he still had one more morning, one more amount of time to do whatever it was he was trying to accomplish. He was still breathing, his heart was still beating, and his blood was still flowing.  
   
Hell, he knew his blood was still flowing in his body. There was enough of that in the bowl of the toilet to make any doctor or casual observer unhappy with the state of his health. Nahollo let out a shaky, weak breath, leaning his forehead against the wall, soaking in the cold and the contact, the feeling of something solid and not shaking. He still had breath in his body, even if it was drawn in ragged and harsh, painful with each rise of his chest, worse with each careful fall. He had to focus on this, just this, just breathing, and nothing else. He would keep coughing, otherwise. He would still hurt, he would still ache, his head would still pulse and throb with the force of those coughs, but he was still breathing.  
   
He could face today. He wasn't dead yet, after all. Not yet, but maybe today. Maybe the next five minutes, maybe the next hour, maybe the next week. None of that mattered- not even that he had never been told what to look for, never been told what a definite sign of his impending doom was. All he knew was that his left hand still ached terribly, and he was still weak, still ill, still rasping and rattling every time he breathed.  
   
Now it was time for clothes. Nahollo braced himself for the pain that came with pushing himself up along the wall, staggering out of the bathroom into his bedroom, feet on bare wooden floors and cold, but he was fine with all of this. After all, it kept the mess down, and blood came out of tile and wood easier than carpets. He hauled his closet door open, struggling his way into dark, warm clothing, catching only faint glimpses of skin and thin arms and legs as he did so. Today would be fine.  
   
He just had to find something to do with today, after classes. Classes were first, but they were empty- he did not expect to see graduation, though he'd easily smashed everyone's expectations for his lifespan to start with. Making it to fifteen was an accomplishment. Making it to sixteen was something that had all of his doctors confounded. He was supposed to be dead now, but he kept living.  
   
He kept living.  
   
It would never have worked if he hadn't found small tasks, small things only he could do. It would have failed horribly, crashed and burned, and he would have swallowed a bottle of pills several months ago just to make the bloody mornings stop, make the hurting stop, the aching wall he'd put up around himself to keep others from coming into his life and getting hurt when he died.  
   
When he eventually died.  
   
It wasn't normal to have your funeral already planned at sixteen, was it? He didn’t think so.  
   
Well, very few things about him were actually normal, so it only figured that having funeral plans would be part and parcel of him. He did not want to be buried, he did not want to be displayed, he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered on his mother's grave. That was all. He did not want anyone but his sister to come to his funeral, no classmates mourning him. He wanted to die during a break, so that nobody would wonder where he went- his sister could tell them, but it would not be a memory of a classmate there one day and gone the next. There were a few of them that were close- way too close for his comfort. The teenager staggered back into the bathroom, catching a spare glimpse of black hair and dark clothing as he went to clean up the mess he'd made of his toilet.  
   
Do not leave blood stains if you can help it.  
   
His next task was breakfast- not a hard matter when he was working out of frozen dinners and simple things that would not spoil and overgrow his kitchen if he had to leave suddenly- or if he was abruptly absent. Milk was in short supply, Nahollo mostly ate frozen breakfast biscuits. They weren't exactly what he'd call his favorite fare, but they were simple, easy to microwave, and did not spoil. Those were all the criteria they needed to meet, so he choked them down, with pauses to regain control over the flow of air into his body.  
   
It was just another day for Nahollo, just another school day where he would always have his mortality pressing on the back of his mind, always nagging at him. He rested his head against one hand, closing his eyes for a moment and letting a sharp stab of pain pass through, It wasn't just that breathing was difficult- no, if it was just that, he could cope no matter what. It was the constant cold in his extremities, the gnawing ache in his hand and occasionally along his spine, the feeling of pressure in his head, times when his vision and hearing would fail or fool him.  
   
Sometimes Nahollo thought his body actively hated his existence, and was diving headlong at the grave just to spite him. It was a thought that was only entertained as a form of morbid humor, a way to laugh at a situation that nobody in any sort of so-called right mind would actually laugh at. Spend long enough dying and you'll learn to laugh at anything. The young man sighed softly, hardly what anyone unused to him would call a sigh, and got up from his table. It was nearly time to catch the bus to school.  
   
Another day, another set of classes. It was fair enough that he was almost summarily ignored by everyone but the teachers. Sitting there like a cold, dead corpse was probably one of the better defenses he had against the other teenagers and their petty power games. They, after all, had no inkling of why his breath rasped and rattled constantly, why even the barest hint of the flu sent him out of school for months at a time and had him scrambling to try saving his grades from dipping into failing. No, it was his secret, and very few things could compare to dying in terms of making his day worse. The comments did not quite roll off of him, the casual slams of the shoulder sending him sprawling into his locker and coughing did not quite get ignored, but they certainly were not the responses that they looked for. After a few weeks of these childish antics, the scattering of new kids would learn that harassing the Graves guy was not an amusing pastime, and they would stop.  
   
It was the friendly ones he had to worry about. He couldn't shut the friendly ones out, not completely, The nice ones who were oh, so concerned, and wanted to hold doors for him because he was so obviously frail, and carry his books for him, and have him lean on them, have them be strong for him while his body failed him- those were the ones that made him alarmed. They wanted to get close to him, usually for no reason other than completely unselfish ones. In a way, it almost would have been better if any of them just wanted to use him and have him be a ticket to something for them- a quick route to popularity, answers for a test, anything, oh, anything but genuine and well-meaning friendship!  
   
It took the better part of first hour to ignore one kind and caring girl in particular who seemed to want to be his friend, who, worse, was rich enough to pay for any treatments he really needed. He was lucky that he did not have second hour with her, and third was shared with her twin sister, who was just as determined to shoo her away from Nahollo as Nahollo himself was ready to see her go.  
   
Nahollo was really starting to get sick of Nina Sexton.


End file.
